Scribble

with every burn, every smoke is it a regret of the chest? Is it a dead man's wish or a birth of a phoenix from the ashes.  With every puff, every smoke inhaled i am a different man. The flickering of lighters,  not just flame, but a ritual, a confession, a war. With every puff, every breath drawn in, I burn a piece of who I was. A different man exhales,  older, darker, sometimes freer, sometimes more chained. It is not the smoke that stains my lungs, but the memories carried in it. Carried by the echoes,  a laugh I lost, a name I shouldn't have forgotten, a promise I never meant to keep. I talk to the fire. I tell it my sins, and it listens like an old friend, quiet, crackling, hungry. They say smoke rises,  but so do ghosts. And maybe I’m both: the man I was, and the man I’m becoming. Both rising, both fading. So don’t ask me why I light another. It’s not my addiction. It’s not my weakness. It’s ritual. It’s not death. It’s the price of becoming who I have to b...

Hope is a lie wrapped in words. Hope is cruel, it knows where it aches.  Hope is hard, it dares to live with the ache.  It makes us wait, not for salvation, But for an illusion that never was, never will be true. Hope dies for nothing. Again and again, it collapses like fragile wings And yet, somehow, a thread of it remains, wrapped around my chest Hope aches in my lungs not gently, not like a breath but like smoke, like fire without warmth. It bursts through my ribs, rips my soul to held anything together. Had life been easier if hope was buried alive? What If it was silenced before it could whisper.  But then what'd be left to endure, What would be left to breath for. 

How do I escape from the labyrinth of my sufferings, when my heart cries out loud but my eyes remain dry? My soul screams, in the silence of emptiness, holding it all inside.  surviving in the quiet. The walls of my maze are painted with regrets, failures, and the slow burn of agony. A silent opera of ache. I tried to let myself be. I tried to breathe with my suffering, to let my heart speak not to the world, but only to me. And still I wander. I spoke to the shadows, called them by name, Fear, Loss,Pain.  The hollow whisper of “what if?” I lit candles in corners, I let none to enter, watched them flicker, then vanish. Some nights, I curl up beside my sorrow, treat it like an old friend, with tired eyes and trembling hands. They say time heals but time only teaches how to wear your wounds And yet,a part of me still hopes. That one day,a crack in the wall will let the light in, not in a blaze, but a whisper, Maybe then,the silence will  hum a different tune, sigh, Maybe th...

Halfway between departure  and whatever waits ahead  there is a strange comfort of  not belonging to the stillness  that lives in between, My echoes of my own footsteps  reminds me to keep moving  i ask no questions here,  even the windows reflect nothing  but the language of uncertainty  meanwhile time passes in the chaos  not loud just relentless like raindrops  The air hums the presence of others  Rushing towards what comes ahead I move too, not with purpose just for the cause of simply existing

Maybe this is the peace I’ve always sought,  Then maybe, just maybe, it has been waiting for me all along by the tree, in the rippling water,  In the stillness of a moment that asks for nothing but your presence,Banalata.  Banalata left me with a moment’s peace, And I sat beneath the tree by shore, With the peace she left in me.But what if peace is nothing but an illusion? A brief truce in an indifferent world, A moment stolen from the absurdity of it all. The water rippled, indifferent to my presence. The tree stood there silent, The city behind me moved forward, blind and relentless,reckless.  As if I had never existed, And I would not be missed when I leave Perhaps this was the truth  There was no greater meaning, no purpose, Only the choice to sit, to watch, to exist,  And if I could accept that, Perhaps that was peace enough. Maybe I might sit beneath the hallow tree forever, That time itself might forget me, That the world, in its relentless forward m...

Her smile lights up my carved wounds.  A defiant radiance piercing the sullen sky of existence, daring the world to be less bleak. It startles like a memory of summer in a city bound by frost.  Her heart is the capricious monsoon,  Shifting from tender drizzle to relentless storm A restless sky, mostly cloudy, Heavy with unspoken storms. Her hair descends like a celestial accident,  It cascades down her shoulders like  A forgotten poem unraveling in the wind.  Her hair falls like something torn from the heavens, A rift in the sky where midnight escapes. It tumbles in dark waves, untamed and fierce, Her eyes are cosmic abysses—twin infinities where the stars drown willingly,   Where no astronomer could fathom.  Constellations shimmer, fragile and fleeting,  In their depths where light surrenders. Her face is an unfinished masterpiece,  Each line drawn with tender precision. The canvas seems alive, as each brushstroke of sorrow and gl...